


sleep forever

by millcrs (remoose)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, braven bathtimes, except they have a shared dream of a fractured suburbia, makes zero sense ngl, spacekru in cryo sleep, this was a s5 reach, v abstract and vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 04:29:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17636051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remoose/pseuds/millcrs
Summary: "split the dirt and show me what grows here,show me a place wherei can choose pain and it does not destroy me."— Bei Jie Si.





	sleep forever

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this way before season 5 came out, it mostly stems from the intimacy i imagined for spacekru being stuck on the ring together. that kind of cabin fever that is inescapable bc they're not in this huge bunker with 999 other people. there are seven of them, and they'd have to learn to get along. the cryo sleep thing is a reach, i have no idea how that would work. it's sort of like cryo sleep meets city of light / my name is earl's suburban coma fantasy where paris hilton kept popping up for no reason. this makes no sense, sorry.
> 
> title from sleep forever by dreams we've had x

i.

she has memories of this life: sweet ones sharpened by the sour scent of alcohol on her mother's breath. accents of long-haired boys throwing pebbles against her bedroom window, bringing her ice cream for breakfast, braiding her hair back in the dappling evening sun.

in each memory, it is summer. sunlight spilling over into ever line of sight; fairy lights, headlights, bellamy's little sister's nightlight. gold-gilded clouds creating a heavy blanket between raven and the rest of the universe, leaving little room for the stars to peak through.

a boy who exists only in blurs, who she loved so deep the loss of him scorched her heart, stuck glow in the dark stars to her paint-peeling bedroom ceiling. she knows his face, she'd know it in death, but his name escapes her. only one name finds itself spilling past her lips in the night time hours. a beautiful alliteration.

_bellamy blake. bellamy blake. bellamy bradbury blake._

bellamy bradbury blake's blue bubble bath. arms big and bulky, reach to soap up her legs. there is a part of the process she can't feel, but he devotes an equal level of care and attention to all her limbs. he takes a moment to tickle her toes in the way he knows she hates and is struck by the bright orange reminder of emori's drunken pedicure. it's messy, but messy is good.

when murphy comes looking for the broken mp3 player, they're still in the bath.

it's cramped, three walls of off-white tile surround them. bubbles long vanished, the water is blurred in that soapy fog, but neither of them cover up. close quarters and bellamy's smoking a cigarette. close quarters and murphy makes them closer; he sits on the edge of the bath and reaches for source of soft summer songs.

"you've got bad taste, raven. this whole thing is in bad taste."

bellamy's steam-soaked curls flop onto his forehead with a single stream of echoed laughter.

"what does that make your music, murph?" it's a rhetorical question, of course. it makes his music that rock-bottom kind of shit you listen to when every other channel is feeding you pure static. "i deleted your playlist, by the way. _SUCK MY DICK, BLAKE_ , remember that one?"

murphy halfheartedly swings for bellamy and raven's eyes roll of their own accord by now. her inexplicable fondness is something she can't control, but the snatches the mp3 player, fingers grazing another example of a beautiful alliteration:

_jasper jordan. jasper jordan. jasper jordan._

he never scratched his middle name into the white plastic. maybe he told her, she can't remember. monty knows, surely. monty knows a lot, but he rarely says it. he loves jasper, she knows that. just like she loves that boy with no name.

they're both dead, she knows that too.

 

ii.

when the scarring that's been carved into the notches of her spine aches in the dead of night, raven knows this reality is, well, real.

it's in the way echo is haunted by some unknown ailment; in the way monty shakes from the horrors of actions he can only vaguely recall. she sees it when harper thinks twice about reaching for the neck of a bottle, when emori's hand remains uncovered, when murphy flinches at seemingly nothing.

it's unavoidable, the way bellamy tends to the room of a sister that just... isn't there. he leaves the window cracked open, as if she will climb through one night when he's (not) sleeping; like she's peter pan, off in neverland where nothing has changed. sometimes raven wakes up to an empty space beside her, and she doesn't need to strap on her brace and limp groggily to octavia's "room" to know where bellamy is; not anymore.

harper joins her, on occasion, when her bed is just as absent of monty's warmth as raven's is of bellamy's. octavia may not be a replacement for jasper, but she is reminiscent of him. parts of his soul remain in hers, monty seems sure of it, and parts of her soul are so deeply rooted in bellamy's, to monty they are almost the same person.

 

iii.

there is no world outside their backyard. raven fixes up the car in the garage but they have nowhere to go. sometimes bellamy sits with her in the front seat, headlights beaming through the living room window, engine revving in their frustration. she presses play on a mix entitled _maya_ and lights up for him (to spare the unnecessary shame she knows will consume him at the uncontrollable shake of his fingers).

"no point stressing about it, shooter." she passes the cigarette to him, an inch from his pursed lips, he bites it between clenched teeth and inhales.

"nothing else to do, is there? suburbia is such fucking limbo. i can't remember a life outside of it." she knows this is true. it seems that all the friends they knew before disappear overnight. once there were hundreds, thousands, neighbourhoods packed with families and people their age, people like them and people not. she remembers most of them, but slowly it whittled down to the seven of them.

the last to go was clarke. raven can recall little things about the blonde, her quirks and habits, the way she liked the crusts cut off her sandwiches, but not a single solid memory surfaces at the thought of her. if she were to hazard a guess, she couldn't really tell which side of the mouth her mole was on, whether she was left or right handed. she felt an indifference towards the girl, most of them couldn't even recall who she was. but everything was made up of fabrications. deep down she could tell that none of it was real.

but this, here with bellamy and their five companions, this is undoubtedly real.

she proves it by reaching across the stick shift to lace her fingers through his own. to hold his hand and press her lips to his knuckles. count the scars and freckles and cigarette burns, join their together like the constellations she used to swim between. the ones that used to float above their heads.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
